Unquenched
by Sybil Corvax
Summary: Rowena Ravenclaw, would she be proud, or would she be disappointed in my lust for knowledge? My unquenchable thirst? Probably disappointed. I let myself become unintelligent in my quest for a good story. Obsessed with the quest for truth. I was Unquenched
1. Monologue

**I don't know why I'm submitting this. I promised myself I'd never, ever, ever touch this because it is too precious to be played with.**

**It's not even finished.**

**Oh God, what am I doing?**

**Erm...this...is my unfortunate giving in to my craving to write something Harry Potter. I've never done it before and even though this isn't finished, I think you can imagine what I planned to do with it when I started it. It just now seems to have slipped my mind...**

**Um...**

**Yeah.**

**I'm going to go die now because I have touched what I should not have touched.**

**J.K Rowling, please forgive me T_T**

_Please Review_

**Edit: **OC is the one who is talking. OC is a nameless character of my imagination. It is deliberate.

* * *

><p>No one ever suggested that life was going to be easy, but when you're a bright-faced youth tinged with the previous eleven years of pampering and smiles and no-fear, then it's easily assumed that the rest of life will come just as well.<p>

I was that sort of eleven year old child. All smiles, no fears, and everything seemed endless and perfect and the world was set out before me. The details of my childhood are, in comparison, not really all that important. It was easy and I was happy, but somewhere along the lines of life, I was smacked with reality and it was upon my first year at Hogwarts that everything changed.

Well, not entirely _in _my first year. However, it was a catalyst of sorts. I digress, to the point, shall I?

Muggleborn. I am a muggleborn. The point itself isn't, perhaps, entirely important. Not in the world of the normal folk. My parents, however, could not be classified as normal. They'd always had a bizarre fascination with ghosts and the paranormal and _things_ that can't be entirely explained. To say they were thrilled upon discovering my even further uniqueness among the norm would be an understatement at best.

They were even further ecstatic upon my thrust into the world of witches and wizards and other things. Mostly with the thought of attaining knowledge that other 'normal folk' could never comprehend. It's probably what made my transition easy initially.

Initially.

Amongst the life of the norm of the muggle society, I, perhaps, could have been classified as intelligent. The fact that most of my peers were not terrifically tolerant or intelligent might have something to do with it, though I may be conceited in suggesting that.

My first magical act was when I was eight. I happened to levitate a picture book from the top shelf that I was desperate for.

Regardless, I fit in better with the society of magic than I did with the society of what muggles from Manchester considered normal. My parents coddled me and were pleased to learn more. They accompanied through the wonders of this new society and even though they stuck out and embarrassed me often enough, I was glad for the bit of familiarity (even though, really, I would have fit in better without them).

I'm an unfamiliar. A muggleborn unfamiliar.

I still knew very little of this new world I had been thrust into and though I did not cry the day I separated from my parents for my attendance at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, that does not mean that I did not want to. Perhaps if I had, they may have further understood how this separation and change was incredibly difficult for me.

I was used to things being quite easy, really.

But, it was not easy. There was so much I did not know and I was terribly quiet and kept to myself for the most part as I tried desperately to catch up and to understand. While back home I did not fit in, I was somewhat desperate for that here in this new society and world. Perhaps childish, but what child does not wish to fit in?

Especially in a world so entirely new and different as I keep repeating for some unattainable reason.

Regardless, despite keeping to myself for most of the journey, I did make friends and I did hear the gossip. Gossip travels quickly among children. Especially the gossip about The Boy Who Lived. A legend of sorts – even now you know who I speak of.

This was the type of gossip that even an eleven year old muggleborn could find herself interested in. I absorbed it, like most of the other children. I learned quite a bit, but not enough to satisfy me.

Apparently, I had developed a thirst and desperation for knowledge. Dangerous, and yet somehow endearing as some would call it.

I would say, however, that it was definitely quite a bit more dangerous than endearing. I lived it, after all. When one becomes obsessed with knowledge of any certain topic, it can never be healthy. That thought, however, was lost upon my younger self.

Harry Potter, not personally, was the obsession. I had always loved stories and thus seized the opportunity to learn much more about his. This was a legend and even though I could not quite understand what it meant, I knew that it was there and I knew that if I tried desperately enough, I could grasp it just as I had everything else in my young life.

I meant no ill harm. My thoughts were, perhaps, selfish, but my thirst for knowledge...I wanted to understand so much. The Sorting Hat was quite caught, you know. It was only by a hair and by my muggle blood that I was thrust into Ravenclaw rather than Slytherin. Not that I mind Slytherin terribly – I'm rather fond of snakes.

It's love of intelligence, however, that made me a better suited Ravenclaw. While Slytherins are indeed ambitious, back in 1991 and throughout most of my years at Hogwarts, most of them proved that they were not particularly intelligent. Besides, in reality, my blood status (or lack thereof) may have proven to be quite difficult for their small brains to handle. And my body, really. I don't expect that would have gone over well.

Regardless, Ravenclaw was best suited to me. I could strive and work towards my desired knowledge and no one would ask questions. It was quite popular at the time to badger Harry Potter with questions and pine over him and his apparent heroics and while I never was the type to do that, I could use his answers to my advantage.

In short, he had gained quite the shadow when I was not reading up on my history and doing my homework.

No one could know The Boy Who Lived better than The Boy Who Lived, himself, after all. If anyone noticed my presence, it was almost never mentioned. Though, I do expect that Headmaster Dumbledore, perhaps, may have known more than was let on.

He had a particular interest in trying to distract me with new books, new lessons, stories. Try as I might to resist, he seemed to know my very weakness. I was still a child fascinated with stories. Fairy-tales, historical, mythical, it never mattered.

I was my parents' daughter. They loved stories as well. It was why they showed such interest in such unusual things for muggles to show interest in.

Headmaster Dumbledore's attempts, however duly noted, were not enough to throw my off my course. Perhaps I should have become a reporter? A journalist? Not like Rita Skeeter. I'd have much more tact than that and I would get the truth.

All I ever wanted was to get the truth. Even if it took me years to do it, this was a story that I wanted to understand and know better than anyone else. It was the story of the century and Harry Potter was a fascinating subject – he had survived quite a lot and he was my opposite.

His life, I imagined, must have been quite difficult in comparison to my own. I remember overhearing stories he shared – though with some hesitation – to his friends. Yes, in contrast to my own, it was very difficult.

All the same, he knew as little about this world as I did so we were not entirely different. It only heightened my curiosity more.

Curiosity, as we know, is really quite dangerous.

I would have done better without it. Alas, I was a child and perhaps that is no excuse for my determination, but it is the truth all the same.

Even over the holidays did my studies not end and while I knew that I would be unable to directly confront anyone about my peculiar and unhealthy interest in Harry Potter, that did not stop me.

Book upon book. September upon September. I read and I learned and I wrote the story out and I was never really satisfied. Once I felt that I had learned as much as I could about the subject of Harry Potter, I discovered more details. Either about the boy himself, his companions, or his relationships with those around him.

Or, even better yet, The Dark Lord Voldemort.

That was something particularly interesting to my knowledge hungry soul. How better to learn than to start from the beginning?

I had known, when I stumbled upon this apparent bright idea at the age of sixteen, that this would likely be dangerous. I had never cared about the danger. It was all about the story. I could never get enough.

In this sense, I had lost myself. I had lost myself quite a long time ago when I had given in to the lust of knowledge. Rowena Ravenclaw would either be very proud or very disappointed. I would say now, disappointed, because in my searching and in my craving to learn more, I was likely the most unintelligent person to exist.

Now, I know that one can only learn so much before the world begins to crumble. I did not know that at the time – or I openly chose to ignore it without much thought.

The best way to learn about a Dark Wizard, is to give and join their cause. It was just terribly unfortunate that my blood was so undermining. Thus, I had to prove myself to be terribly useful in some way.

That, and I needed to somehow locate Voldemort.

Locating a Dark Wizard would prove to be difficult, but I was a cunning and ambitious one. Hence why the Sorting Hat at Hogwarts was initially so split between Ravenclaw and Slytherin. However, as difficult as it might have been, I also somehow knew what I needed to do.

Muggleborn or not, I had great knowledge. I had been watching Harry Potter for years. Learning about him, his habits. One great story would lead to another and I was about to become an antagonist. Voldemort could find my knowledge to be very useful. If I could find him, of course, but in order to locate him, I needed to make myself known and seen as desirable.

Whether or not the Death Eaters and the Dark Wizard had a vendetta against my kind and my lack of pure blood meant very little so long as I could provide them with some form of use.

Headmaster Dumbledore must have known what I was thinking. Several times that year, while he was not busy with Harry Potter or other errands, he was trying to muddle in my path. Trying to distract me as he had before, but I had since become immune to his stories as I was confronted with such a bigger story now.

One that I could involve myself in to quench my thirst.

So long as I waited and kept close to Harry Potter, the Death Eaters would come and I could be taken to Voldemort. By a quick grab of a cloak through apparition, I could easily be brought to my desired meeting and destination.

Or, I could be killed before I even got a word in. Either way, I knew what I wanted and even if I died to get it, it didn't matter.

This was my quest to quench what was unquenchable. My thirst, my ravenous hunger for knowledge and the true story.

I knew so much about Harry Potter, but the only way to know it all was if I knew Voldemort as well. Both sides of the story.

Perhaps, now, that I think about it, Hogwarts was not the best choice for me. Had I remained unknowing of my abilities, I would not have tapped into them and this desire and desperation would not have occurred. Perhaps I was as weak-minded as the majority of the Slytherins and therefore undeserving of my talents (if one could call them such). It hardly matters now because I had made my choices and decisions and I had truly become what most would fear.

Perhaps not entirely in my blood-thirstiness, but in my heavy and thick desire to do whatever it took to get what I felt was rightfully mine to claim. In my mind, everything and every story that was set before me was going to be mine. I was going to know it all.

Even if I had to resort to pointless killing to do it. To prove whose side I was on.

Realistically, it was my very own, but no one else needed to really know that. I could play whatever side I wanted to if I was cunning enough.

The feeling of being thrown to the dirt at his feet, wand pointed at my throat as everyone bore into me was almost exhilarating.

My expression, to my very own credit, was cool and relaxed despite my position. They could practically smell the oozing stench of muggle-blood flowing through my veins and it was often commented on. I could only be amused by this as I lifted my head, convinced that they were too curious to know how I could be so stupid to stumble into the arms of those of true evil intentions to my kind.

My eyes locked with Voldemort's and I will admit that it was a chilling experience. All part of the thrill, at the time, I suppose. I was a lunatic. Gone mad by my own deepest desires and lust and greed. I was my own agent and worked for myself alone.

If Voldemort did not give me what I desired, I would have likely attempted to escape into the night to appease my hunger and unquenchable lust for the rest of my story some other way.

But, he did.

Clearly, I did not die that night. My hunch proved true, somehow, it would seem. My muggle-blood was something Voldemort could put up with if I could lead him to where he desired to go. If I could help him to destroy what he wanted to destroy more than anything else.

But of course, I would need to prove myself first.

Two Death Eaters accompanied me and it was without any hesitation that I destroyed all that I had of my muggle life.

My parents.

Their faces were contorted with horror and I could only smirk as I glanced back to the faces of those with me. It was a silent challenge to them as well and while they were clearly still disgusted with my choice, Voldemort's own desire overruled theirs to destroy my infectious diseased blood.

My obsession was much like Voldemort's. Both of us would do anything to achieve what we desired. However, in the end, it was only I who succeeded. If one could truly call it that.

Why?

Because now Voldemort is dead and the battle is won and Harry Potter has succeeded.

I should feel content that the story is complete, but I still want more.


	2. All was Well

**For some reason, I actually felt like adding an addition and an ending to this horrible thing. Character finally has sort of a name... vagueness in general is on purpose and hopefully is forgiven.**

_Please Review_

* * *

><p>Shreds of blue and bronze decorated the young woman beneath the black. The Mark was clear and visible on her forearm and eyes of brazing blue flickered up almost numbly to stare at those around her. An almost twisted smirk slipped into place, but she refrained.<p>

She had just told the greatest story of all time. Even though she would go to Azkaban and even though her fate was now officially sealed, she had done it.

She still craved so much more though. There was always more to the story. Until the legend of the Boy Who Lived died, the story would always be there.

Even though she sat crumpled in the circle; perhaps the only Death Eater to not flee and to succumb to her defeat. The scent of blood and iron and death filled the air. It was thick and so many more adjectives fluttered through her mind – all better than the last.

"There is no point in running." She said simply, remaining still as she glanced from one grimy face to the next and she knew, to them, she was unrecognisable.

A nameless one. It hardly mattered, really. She would still be remembered as the one who held the key to the greatest story of all time. Even though she knew it would never end. Even though her thirst to end it would never be quenched.

The disgust with them was incredible. People who didn't know her. Couldn't understand. Yet, they were all curious. She knew half of them, perhaps. She knew many of the names even though they did not know hers. They should have known hers, really, but perhaps she was so far gone that even though they knew her name, they could not possibly recognise her as the one who had once shared that name.

She couldn't recognise herself, really. Perhaps that was for the best.

Her wand lay some distance from her, snapped in half by the stampeding feet of the previous Battle of Hogwarts. She could go nowhere, really and the only sane part of her mind could see that.

Death would come and it would end. Her story. Perhaps, in the end, that was for the best.

She was not afraid. How could she be? But she did not like the idea of leaving Harry Potter's story unfinished. She despised it. The thought made her skin crawl and she all, but writhed at the thought.

"Many have died because of my actions. My needs. My greed. I recognise that, but over all, I realise that I cannot take such actions back. Nor would I want to."

There was a flutter in the crowd and as her distant eyes flickered over them, a twisted grin fell into place.

So many wands and so much want to destroy her. Why would they not do it? Why would they refrain?

It had long since crossed her mind that she was of dirty blood. That this magical ability had corrupted her and destroyed the human part of her. That, even though she had once been a smiling youth, it was all over now because of magic and because of what it had allowed her to do.

"I am a muggleborn." She said, voice bland, but somehow able to capture the attention of all who surrounded her.

"Not all are like me and not all will become as I have. Gluttonous for knowledge. Ah..." She was interrupted, justly so, by a wand pressed up against her throat.

She glanced over and refrained from smirking as she saw the face.

"Because of you, everyone is dead."

"I only told a story, Harry Potter." The woman replied simply.

"No one had to believe it. And I hardly believe that everyone is dead. Many, perhaps..."

Her eyes flickered around his face and he seemed remotely disgusted and she knew, quite immediately, that he could not possibly understand.

No one could really, who was alive. The only people who could understand, she had killed to prove a point and get what she wanted.

"And I will only add to that toll. It's quite unfortunate...I still have quite an itch to tell the truth. The rest of the story is not out quite yet..."

"Your story ends today, Sproule."

She jerked faintly, eyes flickering in genuine surprise at the use of her surname as she peered up at the one she had watched so closely for so long.

And then, she smiled.

"Indeed it does, Harry Potter...and you will get your happily ever after, I assume? Not that I will ever know. Your story was not one I was meant to see the end of."

But she still wanted to know. Desperately. However, she knew when she was defeated and realistically, she had been defeated the day she had learned of the Boy Who Lived.

"Ah...Rowena Ravenclaw would not be very proud of me at all...such a disappointment..."


End file.
